Captain looks up at me, waiting for me to open my door, but my curiosity is piqued. I need to feed him anyway, so we head back up the stairs, where I see several bags of groceries on the table next to a large bag of dog food—the kind Captain likes, even. One bag is filled with shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, and disposable razors. And the other contains a four-pack of toilet paper. The nice kind.
My throat tightens. I look through the railing at Dad, but he just continues scrolling through the channels like nothing’s happened.
I feed Captain and throw a frozen burrito in the microwave. It sounds like Dad has decided on some hillbilly show about something no one really cares about. Once Captain’s done eating, I load my arms with all my groceries and head for my room.
I pause at my door, staring down at the key in the lock. “Thanks.” My voice sounds strangled.
I hear him start to cry. My stomach grips in a small spasm of guilt and I almost turn, but then I wave Captain down the stairs without looking back. If he knows I heard him crying, things will go south very fast.
How did things between us get so messed up? We used to talk. We used to joke, even. Sure he had his alcohol-induced violent episodes, but he wasn’t quite as much of . . . Who am I kidding, he was always an asshole. Pathetic that I’m feeling nostalgic for the days when he was slightly less of an abusive dick.
• • •
I tell Dr. Dave about the jacket at my session Saturday morning.
“Well, Tyler, I’m proud of you.” He’s just over the moon about the jacket thing. “I’m impressed that something affected you enough to do something this thoughtful for someone you claim to dislike so much.”
“I never said I didn’t like her.” I sink back into the cushion.
“You intimated it.”
“No, she doesn’t like me.”
“If she was kind enough to drive you to school, she obviously doesn’t hate you as much as you think.” He looks at me. “I wonder, why is it so important to you that she doesn’t hate you?”
“It isn’t,” I say. But then I think about her disappointed face when she found out about Ali.
“You care about her.” He’s smiling that smug shrink-smile of his. “I’m right aren’t I?”
Is he right? “Sorry to burst your bubble, Doc. I don’t.”
“Why do you think you’re afraid to admit that you care?”
“I don’t care,” I repeat. And I hate that I maybe do. Mostly I hate Jordyn for confusing me in the first place.
• • •
“I tried to get your attention yesterday as you bailed on school,” Jordyn says when she finally arrives at the studio. She’s almost forty minutes late. I guess if your stepdad or whatever is the boss, you get to be forty minutes late without consequence. Never mind the poor employee forced to sit outside waiting for you to open the damn door.
I pull myself to my feet but don’t bother looking up from the blog post I’m reading about last night—Marcus had a pretty awesome game. Brett, not so much. Jordyn sighs and sits at her computer, like she’s annoyed and waiting for me to ask what’s wrong. Not going to happen.
Henry doesn’t have anything till 11:00, and then he’s booked solid for the rest of the day—four sessions back-to-back. I won’t have time for lunch, let alone to think. Thank god.
After I finish reading again about how Brett fumbled what should have been an easy touchdown at the end of the fourth quarter, which led to a turnover, which led to the other team’s winning touchdown—go, Falcons!—I get on YouTube and try to alleviate my guilt by watching a series of videos about quantum mechanics. I feel Jordyn studying me, but I ignore it. After the fifth video, I head back to the kitchen to grab a Coke and a snack.
Jordyn enters the kitchen just as I’m taking a huge swig of Coke. I let out the nastiest, loudest belch in the history of belches, blowing the stench her way as I pass her. She grunts and shoves my arm. I wish she’d stop being so damn nice. I head back to the computer and watch yet another video about quantum physics and alternate universes and time-travel and shit. Wouldn’t that be something, if that stuff actually existed? I would go back in time, get home from training earlier so I could stop Mom from slitting her wrists, and then I would force her to explain to me how she can be so goddamn selfish.
Henry throws the door open and saunters in, whistling. He’s in an annoyingly good mood. Somebody got laid last night.
Henry tries to teach me about lenses and perspective while bombarding me with lighting terminology during the shoots. I’m kind of getting it by the final session. I can tell it bothers Jordyn that he’s teaching me, and as petty as it sounds, I’m enjoying that very much.
I’ve caught her smiling a few times when I crack a joke to Henry, and it makes me want to shove her out to her workstation, where I can’t see her stupid face. I want her to go back to being indifferent or, even better, hostile. What the hell was I thinking spending over $600 on some chick I used to be friends with a million years ago? Fuck her for making me feel like I had to do that.
“What’s your problem today?” Jordyn asks as we clean up to leave.
“Nothing.” I grunt as I lift a light off the stand.
“You’re mad at me?” There’s an edge to her voice, like she’s just daring me to admit it.
“I don’t care enough about you to be mad at you,” I say, stacking the last light in the closet. I don’t wait for a comment. I don’t turn to see her reaction. If I act like I don’t care, maybe I won’t.
She comes up behind me as I walk to my car. “So I see you’re driving again. I guess you’re not planning on taking the bus this week?”
“Actually, I have another job to do in the mornings now”—I point to the “Sh*t Richie!” sign stuck to the side of my car—“so, no, I won’t be taking the bus anymore.” I get in my car and start the engine.
“You’re welcome. Asshole,” I hear her say through my back window that won’t roll up all the way.
I wave at her as I drive off.
• • •
“Dude, you look like you haven’t eaten in a month,” Marcus says as he walks up to where I’m waiting with the table pager. He’s insisted on treating me to a steak.
I didn’t realize it was that obvious. I mean, I’ve had to adjust my belt a few notches, but I didn’t think anyone but me would notice. Thanks, Dad. “I haven’t,” I say. Marcus thinks I’m joking.
Once we’ve placed our order, I tell him about Ali Heart-over-the-i.
“Dude! She sounds hot.”
“I knew you’d like her.”
He tries to grab my phone, but I’m too fast. “What, are you just going to call her and say ‘Hey, I’m Marcus. I’m friends with Tyler, you know, the guy you hooked up with from the photo place and forgot his name? And anyway, you’re totally my type. Wanna hang?’”
“Damn, man. I’d give it a shot. What can she do? Say no? But she could also say yes.” He’s grinning, waiting for me to put my cell back on the table. I stick it in my pocket instead.
“Not cool. Hook a brotha up.”
I’m saved by the server bringing our food. The scent of perfectly cooked prime rib hits me. My stomach pinches and my saliva glands explode. I dig in and it’s as good as it smells. My eyes shut involuntarily and I let out a groan.
“I’m flattered that I’m able to affect you this way, but maybe this is not the time or place for noises like that. Perv,” Marcus says around a huge bite of steak.
“Can’t help it. It’s that good.” I’m trying to eat slowly. Trying to savor every bite, but I just want to shovel it all into my belly as fast as humanly possible.
“What’s up with you lately? You doing okay? I mean, I know I joke about you being hungry, but I’m not sure it’s a joke now that I see you inhaling that cow. Your job paying you enough? Maybe your dad—”
I f
eel my face turn into a vicious scowl. I set my fork down. “I told you my dad won’t pay for anything. I wasn’t making that up.” My words sound detached and staccato.
Marcus sets his fork down too and looks at me, really looks at me. “I’m sorry, man. If there’s anything I can—”
“It’s not your problem.” I wave him off. “Anyway, I have two jobs now. So I’m fine.” I pick up my fork and cut another piece of bloody prime rib. “But thanks for offering.” I’m not sure he can hear it, but he smiles and nods and then he goes back to his steak.
I tell him about my jobs, leaving out the part about Jordyn working there. I’m not sure he’d even know who she is anyway. He gets a real kick out of the dog shit thing.
“Just wait till you see the signage the guy expects me to keep on my car at all times.”
Marcus laughs. He insists I order dessert. “You’re teetering dangerously close to hipster-skinny, dude. Unacceptable.”
“I promise to up my calories and get back in the gym before I start wearing ironic T-shirts, glasses, and stupid fucking hats.”
“You better,” he says. Then he asks the waiter which dessert has the most calories and orders it for me whether I like it or not.
The waiter laughs and assures me that I’ll like it. It’s everyone’s favorite.
“So, homecoming is this weekend . . .” Marcus trails off. “It’d be cool if you came to the game. The team would like it, I mean, I know I would like it if you were there.”
“I don’t know, Marcus.”
“I figured. I just thought it was worth a shot,” he says with a genuine smile.
“Thanks for understanding.”
“Just think about it?”
I sigh. “Okay. I’ll think about it.” I won’t think about it. There’s no way I’m going. “Who are you taking to the dance?”
“Haven’t decided.” Marcus grins. “But if you’d like to give me that chick’s number . . .”
“Not going to happen.”
“Well, maybe you should take her.”
“You think I’m going to the homecoming dance? Have you lost your damn mind?”
“You can’t not be there, dude. You know you’ll probably be homecoming king.”
“No, I won’t. We both know I only got the nomination because everyone feels sorry for me. Plus Sheila’s been busy campaigning against me. I should probably thank her for that.”
“Sheila’s not campaigning against you. Freaking narcissist.” Marcus flicks a piece of bread at me.
“You ever think of asking Cara?” I ask.
“Cara? Are you high? That chick knows what I’m all about. I’d love to hit that, but there’s no way. She’s too smart to fall for my shit. Why?”
“Just trying to figure out who you haven’t banged yet.”
“Well, yeah. Man, her tits!”
“Right?” I say.
“But yeah, no. There’s no way she’d go for me. Unless you know something I don’t?” he asks hopefully.
“Sorry, man. You’re right. She is too smart for your shit.”
FOURTEEN
Dog Shit Rick meets me at the butt crack of dawn on Monday morning. I had to get up so early that Captain didn’t want to get out of bed. I had to carry him out of my room so I could lock the door, and he groggily climbed onto the couch and went right back to sleep.
I’m making five dollars per house. So it’s a matter of how many houses I can get in. Rick gives me a list of all the Monday clients, which, luckily, are all fairly close together. There are twenty of them and I have an hour and a half before school starts. I don’t waste any time. It’s not even that bad, except for the one house that has three Great Danes with shits the size of footballs. I wonder if Rick charges them more but pays me the same.
I, amazingly, get all twenty houses done and I’m only ten minutes late for school. Like I care.
Mrs. Ortiz tries to stop me in the hallway. She wants to check in on me. She says that my being late is a blatant cry for help, but I explain that it’s just because it was my first day on a new job and I’m still trying to figure out my scheduling. Then I lie and say that we’re having a test in calc and I can’t miss it, and she lets me go if I promise to stop in at the end of the week. So I do. Promise. Not stop in. Screw that.
• • •
At lunch I actually have enough money to buy a pathetic slice of pepperoni pizza and I’m a little too excited about it. Until I see Sheila walking toward me with a purpose.
“I heard you’re taking the bus now. You poor, poor thing. Anyway, I’m not here about that, I’m here to make sure you won’t be at the homecoming game or the dance this weekend.”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Good.” And with that, she turns back to her table.
Really? Well now I’m definitely going. She thinks she can dictate where I can or cannot spend my weekends? Who the fuck does she think she is?
I’m forced to walk past Brett on the way to eat in my car. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and snickers something that involves the word bus. What a dick. He’s the one guy on the team who should actually be happy I’m gone—I mean, he is the running back now. But for some reason he gets off on trying to push my buttons. Whatever. I bet he’s going to homecoming with Sheila. Well, good luck to him and his sloppy seconds.
• • •
“Haven’t seen you at any of the games, Blackwell. Does that boss of yours hate football?” Coach chuckles, trying to cover his disappointment—annoyance?—that I’ve been avoiding him. “I hope he’ll find it in his heart to let you come to the homecoming game this week.”
“I will absolutely be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. And then I feel really bad because of how happy this news makes him. So, of course, I overcompensate. “I’ve been following the school blog every Saturday. Marcus is having quite a season. And Reece? He’s getting better and better. Brigham Young is lucky to have him. Bummed I haven’t had a chance to play with him this year.” I’m shocked to realize I kind of mean that.
“Yeah. I’d have loved to see what kind of damage we could’ve done with the two of you. McPhearson’s not half the player you are. But don’t tell him I said so.” He winks, and heads off.
For a second, I feel like such an asshole for missing this season. Then an image of Mom cheering from the bleachers hits me, and— Nope. Coach is the one who should feel like an asshole for trying to make me feel guilty. I don’t think I can go to the game.
• • •
By Thursday I’m really sick of eating in my car, so when I see Jordyn, I follow her to her usual lunch spot.
“Really?”
“Come on. You totally miss me.” I spread out on the bench directly across from her.
“Yes. It’s not enough to have to put up with you every weekend; I need to see you every day so you can make me feel like shit. Otherwise I might do something stupid, like feel good.”
“I’m flattered that you care that much about me, Jordyn. I had no idea.” I place my hand on my chest and flutter my eyelashes.
“Yep. And it must drive you crazy because I know you don’t want anyone to care. You just want to push everyone away because you can’t stand to have people feel sorry for you. Well, you know what, Tyler? I do feel sorry for you. Your mom left you here and it’s fucked up. It’s okay to be angry. I’d be. I even understand why you do something kind for me and then just push me away. But I’m not going to pretend, because it’s just too exhausting.”
My stomach knots in fury.
“And I’m not going to tell you that you can’t eat lunch here, because I saw your little encounter with the cheerbitches and I know you don’t have anywhere else to go. I know you had to ride the bus and that you have to work two jobs for some mysterious reason, and that sucks. I’m sorry you have to go through all of
that. I’m sorry that you feel the need to hook up with some random girl you met at the studio because you’re so incredibly empty inside. And I feel privileged that you feel comfortable enough to grace me with your presence. So I’m not going to ask you to leave, because, Tyler, I feel sorry for you.”
All the anger I’ve forced down is starting to bubble to the surface. I feel my heart pounding in my fingertips, my toes, my temples. I need to punch something. And it’s not that I’m pissed at her; I’m pissed at me. I’m the one who allowed myself to be vulnerable. But I’m also pissed at her.
Jordyn looks a little uncertain when I stand up and slowly begin to walk toward her. I’m shaking. I look down at my hands, the left is a fist, the right is holding the half-eaten pizza. Before I even register that I’ve moved, my right hand thrusts out, skimming her hair as I shove the pizza into the glossy gray cinderblock wall behind her. Her eyes are wide. She really thought I was going to hit her. I seriously have to get the fuck out of here before I do something really stupid.
I’m walking briskly to my car when Mrs. Ortiz grabs my arm. Her fingernails dig in as I jerk free. I don’t stop. I don’t look back.
When I get in the car, I pound my fists against the steering wheel so hard, I hear something snap on the steering column. And I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream. And scream. And fucking scream until my throat hurts and my screams sound like I’ve swallowed razor blades.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I calm down enough to notice that the tears have stained the blue material of my shirt three shades darker where they’ve landed. Which only makes me angry again. Fuck Jordyn Smith and her insight.
I spot Mrs. Ortiz heading toward my car with the security guard. I get the car started up before she reaches me and drive over the grass median because they’re blocking my path.
• • •
I end up at Dr. Dave’s office pacing the length of the waiting room. A woman close to his age, maybe thirty, watches me while clutching her purse.
When Dr. Dave pops his head out to fetch his next patient, my waiting room friend, he takes in my red eyes and pacing.
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